If We Could Be Heroes
by sulphurage
Summary: How do you help someone differentiate between death and glory? Warning: this IS a marysue .... horrified look
1. Prelude

If We Could Be Heroes

_A King of Fighters fanfiction_

_Disclaimer: Set in an alternate era & mainly an Iori fic centred around an imaginary gf, so u can consider this a mary-sue. eewww But anyway, just a exploration of what-ifs and what I think it would be like. Mature themes and language. Take it with a pinch of salt and maybe we'll have some fun. I don't own any KOF characters. Most unfortunately not Yagami. _

'_The only thing we have to fear is fear itself – _

_nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror _

_which_ _paralyzes needed efforts_

_to convert retreat into advance.'_

_**Franklin D. Roosevelt**_

**Prelude: Another Hell**

His fingers ran over the ground, nails digging into the soft, deep debris and scratching, as he tried to move. Prostrate on the ground; he had no clue why, where or when.

Not praying…

Not begging.

_Never._

His legs felt leaden and numb, pulled down by this oppressive weight, and as though someone had drained out everything in them. He knew they were still there, knew how to use them—but they didn't respond to his brain's signals. Depending solely on his arms, he dragged himself across the thick mass of dirt that he was resting on, the only thing that seemed solid.

Everywhere in the darkness was swirling, thick mist, that looked more like smoke. Suddenly he started choking on something at the back of his mouth, and his hands immediately flying up to his throat, fingers clawing with his nails like a beast possessed. Soon he was strangling himself, while convulsing on the thick layer of dirt, upper body jerking agitatedly while his limp lower part barely moved, and only shifting to the thumping within his chest. All he could see was violet, heat and light, dancing in front of him as the flames engulfed his head, burning up those crimson strands.

The man was feeling fear, anger and pain, vile emotions surging in him like the smoke around, and he knew he had unknown energy somewhere, a seemingly new, fresh source that would help him… pull him out of this torture. But he wasn't going to take it, he wasn't going to accept the help. Instead he would keep jerking erratically in this void, quaking as though he was afraid that imaginative glob inside his throat would kill him.

_As if it would kill him…_

He stopped as abruptly as he had started, eyes wide open and jaw dropped. Then, very slowly, his hands loosened, and he took them off his neck, still clawed-up. Again they felt as though they didn't belong on his body. His eyes travelled from the dark void around him to his long, coarse fingers. Even in the twisted darkness he could still see the dried up blood, the sticky crimson on his skin and under his nails. It was an amazingly familiar sight, and he was used to seeing those powerful hands stained. He glanced down to his lower body, expecting to see his pants, belt strap, buckle and all.

The sight made his heart stop.

Battered, scarred and kicked in, a deformed mess that had fresh blood and cuts so deep that the strangely pearl-white bones were visible.

Then the pain hit.

Tsunamis of anguish and hurt, seemed to fall on his pathetic form, ringing inside and all around him. … he couldn't remember screaming so hard or so loud before… and not hearing anything…

He jerked and woke up, bolting upright in his bed. Strands of soggy hair covered his pallid face, and he could feel the irregular heartbeat, so audible it seemed to fill up the entire room. His quick breaths were loud and shallow, not taking in enough oxygen for demanding lungs. Still gasping like an asthmatic, he forced his breathing to fall silent, and purposefully eased it up, taking slow, soft breaths.

_At least that wasn't a violent one_, he thought, fighting the urge to close his eyes even though his long lashes were fluttering drowsily. He tried to cough, but instead a strangled retch escaped from his sore throat, almost throwing his guts up. Lifting the covers off his bare chest, Iori headed for the kitchen, a small room in the apartment that consisted of few accessories. Shoving the empty beer cans aside, he lifted the kettle, judging the amount of its contents by its weight. There seemed to be considerable amount, he decided, pouring whatever it contained into a chipped cup as he ran the base of his palm over his drenched forehead.

He could feel something mixing with the layer of perspiration, blending with the sweat to form a disgusting paste.

With amazing self-control, Iori drank the liquid, feeling it run through his parched throat, keeping his eyes frozen on the peeling ceiling paint. He replaced the stained plastic cup on the table, hand spasming.

Then he stepped into the bathroom, forgetting to switch on the lights.

In the dark he grasped the closet handle, flinging it open.

It could freeze you like ice, and shock welled up horror—the silent killer of peace.

He stared at the dried blood on his face and hair. Scars adorned his neck, glistening in the early light of dawn. Iori Yagami grit his teeth until it felt like his jaw would crack.

Yet another day. _Yet another hell._


	2. Chapter 1

**If We Could Be Heroes**

_A King of Fighters fanfiction_

"If you want to make peace,

_you don't talk to your friends._

_You talk to your enemies."_

Mother Teresa

* * *

1. Of Thieves & Beggars

_Water is growing in my beer glass. _

He lifted the shot glass to the dim light and took a deep breath, which ate several millimeters off his cigarette butt.

The barman flipped the brown, moist cloth over his shoulder and paused, holding a jug and a frown. "Water ain't growing, Yagami-kun. That's the ice melting."

Iori Yagami suppressed the urge to glare at him, since Mr. Barman was one of the few people in his severely limited social circle. Behind him a scuffle began, by some random thugs, talking about some random thing. People gambling and drinking always ended up brawling.

What was new in Southtown? Nothing.

Iori brushed a few strands of red from his half-closed eyes, and slumped forward, chin on forearm.

_Fuck, I have stubble. _

Someone, somewhere said something like, "I never have stubble. Not even in 1994."

_But then you never lost your flames either. _

_…_

He retched.

"IT'S 50 BUCKS, GIVE IT HERE!" someone hollered, above the din. It was a feminine voice, on the deep side, the kind found commonly in fighting tournaments…

There was guffawing, chairs being pushed back, and without lifting his head, Iori knew there were probably about four, no five, men advancing on the poor girl who was likely to get her just desserts for being in such a place at this time. He heard the obligatory grunt of the fat man exerting too much effort throwing his arm back, aiming for a punch to her face. He felt another lunge forward, the air whistling through his dry throat. Another one going in for a frontal kick – there was an audible crack of the pelvic bone characteristic of a usually sedate person who had suddenly decided to move his legs.

The barman tapped the table, kindly informing him that his cigarette was about to burn holes through his lips if he didn't let it go.

Nodding in appreciation, Iori threw it into the ash tray, leaning back and gazing at the calendar.

3 months. He never thought he'd last so long. His sanity, that is.

Here was a secret Iori would never admit to anyone, hell there were a lot of them but this was one of the worst: he'd never felt more sane than now. The logic behind such an emotion was simple. With the Yasakani no Magatama _and _his flames, purple or otherwise, absent from his care, he was altogether a very normal person. As long as Orochi wasn't near. The feeling was nothing special. It was only like cutting the bloodline short.

The truth was that Iori Yagami was tired of being the "sole descendant of the cursed clan" and needing to babysit the Sacred Treasure, etc etc. The truth was that he was beginning to wonder how long his lifespan really was, considering all the rumours that Yagamis die young. _And yes, I'm working hard at the smoking bit too._ The seldom pure and never simple truth was that his whole _raison d'etre _was a farce. He knew it, Kusanagi knew it, hell, everyone knew it.

… Iori stared at his empty glass, watching in its reflection the long-haired woman dodging blows and sending a couple of stout men flying across the room.

He put the glass down.

People live believing in bullshit. It's a defense mechanism, and it's what makes people fit enough to fight.

Throw in the fact that he was burned out being a perpetual participant in that increasingly screwed-up tournament, and noobs kept jumping out every year. _Every damn year! _

He had been horrified. There was much in his life that had been terrifying and even supernatural. He had been frustrated. But failure never got him down for long. He had been reluctant. But he did what he had to.

Severe depression, Iori now knew, was a downward spiral.

What knocked him out of it, that very moment, was a wooden stool.

While it clattered onto the floor after rebounding off the back of his skull, Iori sat motionlessly. The barman shrank back.

For the first time in a few months, Iori's eyes opened wide. He stood up, and turned around. His vision was blurring, but only slightly.

There was a body count of four men lying on the ground semi-conscious. Two people were still standing: a tall, leather-clad man with curly hair and a tall, leather-clad female with luminous eyes. Both of them were staring at him in complete silence.

Iori waited.

"She did it." The man whimpered, pointing at the woman. She sniffed, rolling her eyes.

Iori turned to look at her.

The girl, who couldn't be older than 23, paused for a moment, enough time for him to give her a good once-over. And another. Lean muscles, considerable cleavage, showgirl legs and thigh-high boots. Iori didn't have a type, but she'd fit it if he did.

"I was aiming it at him, not you," she finally said. Then she shrugged, carelessly. "So what? You want me to pay for your hospital bills? Then I'll need that $50 from this bastard over here."

Iori turned to look at him.

The man winced, dug into his pocket and slammed a note on the table before scrambling out of the bar.

Skipping over in those four-inch heels, she smirked as she reached out for the note. Not unexpectedly, Iori was there first.

The woman kept her eye on the note, lips thinning.

"Compensation," he said.

"I want my change," she retorted, pulling herself up to her full height. They were almost eye to eye now. "I don't believe a little scratch on your head will cost 50."

_Stupid woman._

"Stupid woman," Iori said. "50 won't cover it. Fool."

In a heartbeat his arm came up, fingers closing around her wrist to stop her right palm from smacking his cheek.

A smile crept across her crimson lips. Up close now, he could see her eyes were a light violet, and glowing with glee. Gripped tightly in her left fist was the note.

Before he could react, she head-butted him, sort of. That was the closest approximation to what she was doing. Cursing, Iori fell back, loosened his grip and she took the opening, sprinting towards the exit. He broke his fall easily, and when he looked up naturally she was gone.

"ARGHH, STUPID WOMAN!!!" he hollered. He would definitely kill her the next time he saw her. Or anyone who looked like her, for that matter.

And that head-butt. Bloody hell. He touched his upper lip, and looked down at the shiny lipstick stain on his fingertips.

_WHO THE HELL DOES A HEAD BUTT LIKE THAT?! _

He stood up, and stomped out, heading for the nearest drugstore.


	3. Chapter 2

**2: Imperatives**

"_Every man has his own destiny:_

_the only imperative is to follow it, _

_to accept it, _

_no matter where it leads him."_

**Henry Miller**

* * *

The tie looked strange. He adjusted it again, pushing the knot to the right, then the left. The man in the mirror wore a suit that ran over his muscular frame perfectly, but his handsome face was etched in discomfort. He swallowed hard, then loosened the knot altogether.

"This is not you, Kusanagi," intoned a smooth voice behind him. A blond man came into view, his lean figure similarly clad in a silver suit. He fingered his white tie. "It's not me either. Even though the tuxedos are sweet."

The two old friends were in the bridal studio, trying on suits for Kyo's big day. They both cut striking figures, but the rare expression of apprehension on their faces was unmistakable.

Kyo Kusanagi tightened his jaw, closing his eyes. "This is what we've always wanted. You have no idea how happy Yuki was when I proposed."

A sardonic snort escaped Benimaru Nikaido's slim nose, but coming from him it seemed oddly elegant.

"I've been reading up on philosophy lately. Been thinking about our lives, and how I can face you in the arena and yet be your best friend when we're not kicking each other's heads for thrills.

"I think you and me, we're the real soul mates. Marry me, dump Yuki. Now, Kyo."

Kyo gave an exasperated sigh, glaring at his childhood friend.

"What exactly have you been reading?"

Flicking a few gold strands of hair behind his ear, Benimaru took a seat on the sofa, folding his legs and gazing disinterestedly around the dressing room.

"I see my last-ditch attempt at hooking up has failed. Look, I don't mean to sound preachy, but all your obligatory talk about 'what you've always wanted' is the first step on the road to chaos and destruction. Now, no no, don't start complaining about how your life already is chaotic; this is not about you, it's about you two.

"My advice is this: Listen to that little voice inside of you. We all have one. Mine says that the tailor just now may be my chance at getting some tonight. What does yours say? Does it sound like yada yada til death do us part? If not, get out while you still can."

Throwing himself down beside Benimaru, Kyo shook his head.

"But it wouldn't make sense if we don't marry. She's stuck with me through so much of the KOF shit. We've been together since middle school. And our futures are practically promised to each other. What other reason do I need?"

"Hey calm down, man," Beni said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's logical that you two marry. But logic doesn't govern love."

Kyo looked at him.

"That's the most philosophical thing you've said all day. And the most impossible."

"You and I both know nothing's impossible," Benimaru said, stifling a yawn as he surveyed his manicured nails. It was no mean feat keeping perfect fingers when you were a boxer, but he tried hard. Admiring evidence of that hard work through mirrors and self-examination was one of his favourite pastimes.

Unravelling the tie that was choking him, Kyo shook his head.

"This year's the final tournament for me," he said, quietly. "It's been tiring, these ten years. I just… Just get Chizuru and Yagami's powers back and I can start my own family before it's too damn late."

The two of them sat there in silence for the next minute, gazing at the mirror. Kyo thought he saw a glimpse of them in their school uniforms—young, optimistic, arrogant.

"Let's catch a movie."

Kyo gave a wry laugh. "Which one?"

"That one with the superhero. You know, the one who saves the day and gets the girl. Happy ending."

"What a waste of good money."

"You know you want to."

Beni was right. He was, more often than not.

* * *

The lady sat down on the antique chair, sighing.

"I'm getting old," she said, calmly. _It's time to let go…_Tranquility was her trademark.

She knew her sister would be fuming: "_We cannot let this continue_!"

All her strength and fiery determination were traits she admired and desired to possess. Her sibling's resolve kept the goal of the clan crystal-clear in Chizuru's mind. It pushed her forward, even when hope seemed to be lost.

Gazing into the mirror, Chizuru suddenly felt feather-light. The burdens on her shoulder were overbearing, indeed, she would not be able to take it for much longer…

The phone rang, breaking the silence.

Chizuru gazed at her tired face, taking her own time to retrieve the receiver.

As the message was conveyed, the heaviness on her shoulders grew.

_We do what we must. Such is destiny._


	4. Chapter 3

**3. The Beginning of the End**

_Take time to deliberate, _

_but when the time for action _

_has arrived, _

_stop thinking_

_and go in._

Napoleon Bonaparte

* * *

Cold night air hit him in the face as he left the bar, its chill fresh against his tepid skin. Iori blinked amidst the swirling street lights, cars sneaking by with their weak headlights, but all he was cognizant of was the alcohol high. He stumbled into a puddle, cursed, but the steps became easier to take with a few deep breaths.

The days and nights slip past in a haze of alcohol and dreamscapes that were really reality. What did it matter? His life was worth nothing now; all the years of training vanished so easily. How? Why?

His hand slid into a pocket, palming the familiar Marlboro box and flipped its cover. As with all seasoned smokers, his movements were fluid until he had secured the cigarette between his lips. Iori Yagami had never used a lighter in his entire life. Now his index finger merely trembled in the icy wind, pale skin a dull grey in the darkness. He tried to ignite it again. And again.

The cigarette remained untouched.

In the shadows of that empty road, the redhead froze.

Then something in his head snapped.

Knees crashing to the wet, slick concrete, he banged his forehead against it, letting out an anguished wail from his gut. He could no longer hold back the emptiness; his soul had shredded along with his flames.

Pity.

Hate.

Anger.

Hopelessness.

But beyond all that, was the irony of becoming _normal…_Now he knew it was more than he could handle. Fire was fun to show off and use as an ego-booster when he was a boy, the push to adolescence made him wonder what it would feel like not to suffer in pain every day: training, pain, fire from singed fingers… He grew into an adult being used to it, seeing it as both a gift and a burden for all the pain it brought to himself and others. Orochi was chaos incarnate, sure, but it made him nearly invincible.

A voice said, somewhere from the back, _"Who are you trying to kid? You weren't invincible even with the Riot!"_

Iori's eyes widened, and he stared up at the full moon, disoriented.

_Fuck!_

"I need it back," he muttered, spitting the cigarette out.

He looked up.

"We ain't taken anythin' yet, redhead."

Six men, faces hidden by the darkness, now blocked his path. They were probably wondering why he was kneeling on the ground.

"What a loser."

Iori's dark chrome eyes moved slowly from figure to figure as he picked himself up. Then he smirked. _Just what I need. _

Make no mistake; theoretically, he still despised violence. Instead of him feeding on it, violence itself consumed him completely. At the end of a Riot, there was nothing left, no shred of himself. Right now, Iori wanted to see if he could master himself in the absence of the Orochi.

"Nothing will be wasted," he said, his teeth flashing white as he gave a shark-like smile. "Beggars can't be choosers."

The group exchanged sniggers as they brandished poles and crowbars.

The first blow, however, was bone to bone.

Vision blurred by the rain, Iori threw his head back and gazed at the heavy red clouds overhead. Then he looked down, at the dark pool that was streaming towards the gutters.

The bodies around him seemed to be given a new lease of life under the pattering rain; they were being crushed by the deluge and swimming in a pool of crimson. He held his hands up to his face and felt the waning warmth of blood against his cheeks. That warmth was leaving him now, exposing him to the chill of the November storm. A moan escaped his lips as he tried to cling onto the vestiges of satisfaction. Soon he was going to fall into that trough, when the high had dissipated.

A loud crash echoing from the alley's dead end caught his attention.

Looking further down the backstreet, he made out several shadows amidst the blinding rain.

_Fresh meat? _

He debated between getting a beef burger and joining in the fun.

In spite of himself – most of the time he didn't fight other people's battles — he walked towards the group.

There was a woman. Her back was against the brick wall, and the only thing keeping her dry was a zipped-up leather jacket.

The six of them were leering at her, undoubtedly thinking: _She's done for.._

News stories in Southtown seldom covered crimes like rape and suicide. Their rates were sky-high compared to metropolitan cities elsewhere. Newsworthy events were horrific homocides were pieces of meat were the remains of the victims, ingested in the perpetrator's stomach. On any given day, a female in her situation would have met an unspeakably bloody end.

A smile split her face like a knife. Her fingers fiddled with the zip of her jacket before she pulled it southwards, revealing more pale skin.

The entire group lurched forward. Iori resisted the urge to interfere; the woman was asking for it, after all.

He found himself watching in fascination as she launched into a display of martial arts that he had never observed previously, despite being a fighter himself. She aimed precise punches and chops at the arms, before moving gradually to strike at the chest. Every move was fluid, measured and in perfect form. Every strike paralysed that particular area of the body, and in a minute four men were lying motionless on the ground.

The woman wrapped an arm around the remaining member of the group, and pinned him against the wall, pressing her lips against his ear. After the command, she pushed him towards his unconscious peers, folding her arms and tilting her head to the left. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, dripping with water. Her light purple eyes watched as the man hurriedly digged into his comrade's pockets, pooling wallets, keys and guns into a makeshift bundle using his own shirt.

She smiled upon receiving it and without an inch of hesitation knocked him unconscious with a tight chop to the neck. He fell into her arms and she laid him onto the flooded ground, gently.

Iori applauded. "That was very impressive, but what goes around comes around," he said, allowing the sarcasm to drip off his words. She glanced back.

"You! Stupid woman!" He hollered, recognizing the wrench who had cut his head open with a chair a week back.

Whirling around, she whipped out an automatic from the bundle, undid the safety and aimed it at his face.

"Who are you?" she asked, warily. He gave her a good once-over. The jacket hid most of her curves but he could make out feminine arches, the tight ab muscles and her hotpants showed off mile-long legs. His gaze travelled back up to her face and stayed there. She was a beauty, no doubt, bright violet eyes and lips like cherry blossoms. Pity though, about the life of crime and constant participation in illegal activities. Not to mention the obsession with money.

Iori's mouth opened, then closed. A death wish. He had always had one. He walked towards her, closing in the distance between them until the gun was against his forehead. In those five-inch heels, she was taller than him by a hair's breadth.

"My name," he said, breathing a combination of alcohol and smoke into her face, "is Iori Yagami. And if you dare to, pull the trigger."

As expected, the woman hesitated. "The blood all around here is your doing?"

He couldn't get the idea of running his fingers under her jacket out of his mind.

Slowly, he brought his hands up to face level. Rivulets of rainwater mixed with blood ran along his skin.

Taking advantage of that few seconds' worth of shock, he drove a straight jab into her chest, holding back a fraction of his strength. He watched in satisfaction as she collided with the brick wall, debris flying in all directions.

He walked over, intending to retrieve the loot when a kick came out of the settling dust, her heels stopping inches from his neck as he dodged reflexively.

Iori cursed and dove forward, claws aiming to draw blood. It was at that point where he really missed his flames; fighting didn't feel the same without them.

Now she was sidestepping and dodging his attacks with surprising agility, and at unexpected times he got a solid jab or kick, which he would manage to block at the last minute.

"Put your hands up, both of you!"

They both pulled back, and found themselves face to face with two policemen.

"Thank goodness you're here!" the woman exclaimed, throwing her arms up as though she was acting in a primetime soap opera. The bundle fell on the ground. "This man," she said loudly, pointing at Iori, "…Was trying to mug me and my buddies. He was just about to beat me up and steal our stuff!"

He stared at her in disbelief. This old trick! It was the same blatant distraction back at the bar where she'd thrown a chair at him. She barely had a scratch on her, but she was female, looked like she had been mauled and was wearing an innocent expression only young women of a certain age and maturity could reliability pull off. Iori knew that his appearance warranted no excuses; the policemen had already turned their guns on him.

"Stop! Put your hands up!" they commanded, while motioning for the female to walk towards them.

Bending over to pick up the bundle, she winked at him before striding towards the policemen.

"Open up the bag, please, miss," one of the policemen said.

She paused, and slowly undid the soaking shirt. As they bent forward to take a better look, she elbowed one across the face before kicking the other's temple. Both men fell and she took to a sprint.

There was no single reason why Iori gave chase. Perhaps it was because he was out of cash. Or that he would rather do this than go back to his dilapidated apartment and beat up his landlord. Or maybe avoid another night of insomnia. Or, maybe, it was because the woman represented new possibilities: skills he could learn and use.

All that, intermingled with curiosity and the wildness of adrenaline, lengthened his strides.


End file.
